


Lemon Meringue Pie

by darkforetold



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Baking, Blow Jobs, Flirting, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 20:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13666905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/pseuds/darkforetold
Summary: Gabe and Jesse try to bake and... get distracted.Gabriel looked at his lips, soft and pink. He wanted to kiss him until his mouth came away bruised. Finally, after all these painful fucking years, he wanted to risk it all for Jesse McCree—his job, his life, every possible thing he held dear. Red tape hadn’t stopped either of them. Neither of them truly cared about the UN’s regulations, the power imbalance, the age difference—none of it. The way Jesse tilted his hips forward right then, locking brown eyes with his own, told him that Jesse wanted everything he wanted.





	Lemon Meringue Pie

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my sweet darling beta @rosewrought! ILU!
> 
> Day 2 Prompt: Flirt

His ingredients were all laid out in a line, measuring cups, the mixer; all checked off and neat like he was inventorying equipment before suiting up. The plan was to make the best damn cookies Overwatch had ever eaten and blow the annual bake-off right out of the water. Wipe that smirk off Reinhardt’s face. No one would ever whisper how amazing and delicious Reinhardt's Stolle was again, and he’d become the undefeated champion.

That was the plan anyway.

Gabriel stared at his recipe, brooding over it, and checked his ingredients—once, twice, a third time because he was meticulous—nervous and particularly doubtful. He was so absorbed in his planning that he almost missed it: the tell-tale stride of a certain Jesse McCree. It was sure-footed, purposeful, like he had a destination already set in mind. More than likely on his way toward the practice range, he thought, maybe to take a few more lessons from Ana, or foolishly challenge Genji to a little hand-to-hand sparring match. Except Jesse wouldn’t make it that far, he knew. His path would take him by the kitchen—

He heard the exact moment Jesse noticed him standing there, studying his ingredients. There was a hitch to Jesse’s breath and his heart skipped a beat. It ricocheted wildly in his chest, and his gait changed from direct as an arrow to lackadaisical, meandering, a lazy little bee drunk on nectar. Gabriel could almost hear the tilt to Jesse’s hips as he walked in, the way Jesse poured himself into a soft repose next to the kitchen door, just inside the room. Gabriel didn’t need to look to know Jesse would be standing like he always did when he was studying him: against the wall, arms crossed with his head leaned back, his throat temptingly exposed. 

Undeniably irresistible. Sexy as all hell.

The air changed, just as it always did when Jesse was about to say something. Goosebumps formed on Gabriel’s skin in anticipation. He closed his eyes and braced for impact.

“You stare at it long enough, might just make itself."

The south oozed from every syllable. Jesse always laid it on a little thicker because he knew that was exactly what Gabriel liked—because Jesse had studied his commanding officer just as much as Gabriel had studied him. They’d been dancing around each other for years. While neither of them had taken the risk, they hadn’t kept their desires for each other a secret either. Both of them knew exactly which buttons to push and when.

—which was why Gabriel didn’t bother looking at him. He simply exhaled through his nose, an audible sound that said he was listening, but was noncommittal enough to tell Jesse he didn’t care to answer. Jesse McCree hated being ignored.

“You’re missin’ the bakin’ soda.”

Gabriel schooled his expression, kept it tight and neat. His eyes darted over his ingredients, to the list, and back again. Jesse was right. He had missed it. Gabriel pulsed a muscle in his jaw. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, agent?”

His terse exterior had always been his first defense mechanism—

“Can’t think of a place I’d rather be than here.”

—which Jesse had learned to sidestep with grace. “Besides,” Jesse went on to say, “I’m guessin’ you’ve never quite done this before.”

Jesse used to fight to keep his body in check, but now, he let his breath pitch a little, his heart a ticking time bomb against his ribs. He couldn’t beat Gabriel’s SEP sense, so he rolled with it. Now, Jesse used every breath, movement, and inflection as a weapon—and it drove Gabriel crazy.

“You may be the king of sewin’,” Jesse drawled, “but you ain’t never baked like my momma used to—and that’s a fact.” Gabriel could hear the lazy smile in his voice. “Yeah, I reckon’ I still remember a thing or two. And you’re gonna need all the help you can get to beat ol’ Reinhardt. His Stolle is just like—”

“—his grandfather used to make, I know.” Gabriel clenched his jaw. “You got a plan then?”

He knew the answer. Jesse would play the ‘competence’ card—something that never failed with Gabriel. He heard a paper rustle. A creased recipe appeared in his periphery, fluttered down right over his own. In that moment, Gabriel became unequivocally aware of how close Jesse was; just a step apart, body heat warmer than the sun, his words hushed like they were dirty little secrets. “I came prepared. Sorta knew you were gonna have a problem with Reinhardt goin’ on like he was.” Jesse leaned in and whispered, “Sometimes I think I know you better than I know myself.”

Gabriel clenched his jaw. “Then you know you’re overstepping your bounds, agent.”

Jesse chuckled, and the sound tickled his spine. “You pullin’ rank on me already? Little early for your second defense, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t a game, McCree,” he grated out. “You planning on helping with this or not?”

“Can’t let you burn down the kitchen, now can I?”

When Jesse was safely turned away, Gabriel shot daggers into his back. His dark Blackwatch-issued T-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders and clung to his toned body. Jesse had put on a lot of muscle recently, filling him out in ways that were practically sinful. Gabriel followed the cut lines down his back to his hips, his— He swallowed hard and frowned down at the recipe (“Classic Lemon Meringue Pie,” it read), busying himself with the details.

One and a half cups of all-purpose flour, half a teaspoon of salt, six tablespoons of—

“Cookies aren’t good enough?” Gabriel asked, a shade ruffled.

“No offense, boss.” Jesse had his head stuck halfway into the refrigerator. “Cookies ain’t gonna win.”

Gabriel forced his gaze down again when Jesse turned around and came closer. It was his only way of staying in control. Even when Jesse thumped down his extra ingredients—loudly, more forceful than necessary—Gabriel didn’t bother looking up. He was being a child. He knew it. Jesse knew it. They both knew Jesse hated it.

“Where’s this from?” Gabriel tapped the recipe. “Your mother?”

“Yes—God rest her poor soul.” Jesse took away Gabriel’s useless ingredients. “Memorized it from when I was a kid. Ain’t never told you this, but every Sunday, after church, momma and me would bake her famous Lemon Meringue. Eat it out there on the porch and watch the sun go down. You know, before ol’ Deadlock came and killed her.”

Gabriel tensed his jaw, mumbled out, “I’m s—“

“Needn’t be sorry, boss. She’s right here with us.” Jesse tapped the recipe. “Reinhardt’s gonna have to eat his own Stolle this year. Ain’t no goin’ back after havin’ my momma’s Meringue. They’ll be talkin’ about it for weeks.”

“And we’ll win,” which was all he cared about. “So. Where do we start?”

“You can stand there and look pretty for now. I’ll do the fillin’. We can work on the meringue together—that comes later.”

Jesse scooped up his ingredients and headed toward the stovetop on the other side of the kitchen before he could protest. Suddenly, the space between them felt too big and too cold. Gabriel snagged looks at him when he could, watching Jesse stir his dry ingredients—cornstarch, flour, and salt, he guessed by the smell—then gradually pour in hot water. So sure and comfortable in the kitchen that Gabriel could barely remember to breathe. Jesse placed the saucepan on the stove and stirred while Gabriel stared helplessly. He’d often caught himself daydreaming about him, what it’d be like to cup his face, run his thumb along his strong jaw line. How Jesse’s lips would feel against his own, if he’d taste like whiskey and cigarettes, or cinnamon and honey. And his smile—it turned up at the corners of his lips right then, blooming into a full grin. Growing a little lopsided, cocky, like he’d—

“How’s the view?”

Fuck.

Gabriel dropped his eyes down to the recipe. “Where’s the pie crust?”

“Already done and baked, and in the pantry.”

“You planned on helping me from the beginning?”

“Yeah, that or win myself if you decided on bein' stubborn,” Jesse drawled. “Why don’t you bring it on out? M’almost done here.”

Gabriel did as he was told, grabbing the the golden pie crust from the pantry and setting it on the counter next to Jesse, who sidled up next to him—too close—and began to pour. While the sunny yellow liquid oozed into the crust, all Gabriel could think about was how close they were. Being an inch away gave him leeway to tune into things he wouldn’t otherwise be able to; the melody of Jesse’s heart—steady, with an erratic jump every time they accidentally touched—and the rhythm of his breathing, something Jesse was fighting to keep control of. A gentle current of whiskey, smoke, and whatever Jesse used for shampoo—something flowery yet somehow masculine all the same—tickled his nose. If Gabriel naturally leaned in, just to feel that much closer to him, Jesse either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“Now,” Jesse said, pulling Gabriel out of his reverie. “We start on the meringue.”

Jesse motioned for him to follow, and they moved to another counter as one. Gabriel watched Jesse gather a stainless steel mixing bowl, two eggs, sugar, salt, a lemon and white vinegar, of all things. There was an electric mixer nearby, spoons—all of it foreign to a man who’d spent most of his life in the military with dry rations and endless days of shitty food. Nothing luxurious like this.

“Wipe down the bowl’n’spoons with the vinegar. Make sure to get the mixers too.”

“Okay,” Gabriel said. “While you…?”

“Watch.” Gabriel wanted to look at him, question why, but— “After doin’ all the pie makin’, thought I’d take a load off. Do a little commandin’ for once.” Jesse edged in a little closer. Their arms touched. “There a problem with that, agent?"

It was as if someone had punched him. He nearly jolted, but somehow kept it together. His heart slammed against his chest, trying to break free. The very thought of Jesse giving him orders, of the roles being reversed, Jesse being dominant… Gabriel swallowed. He kept his composure as calm as a glassy lake. “Are you sure you want to play that game with me, McCree?"

“Never been surer in my entire life.” Jesse leaned in to whisper, “Now do as I told you.”

Gabriel clenched his teeth, not out of defiance, but out of pure unadulterated need—a need for physical contact that Jesse denied him by moving away, keeping careful watch at a distance. To keep control or to punish him, Gabriel didn’t know. He zeroed in on Jesse for clues as he plucked up the bottle of white vinegar. His breathing was steady, heartbeat torturously dull. Had he somehow learned to master his body’s telltale signs? Had Genji—

“We’re gonna be here all day if you keep goin’ this slow, Reyes.”

It was never Reyes with Jesse. “Boss” or the occasional sarcastic “sir” always seemed to work fine, and Gabriel had never corrected him. The way he said it now, with that touch of hard, unflinching authority… Gabriel steeled himself. It was just a game. Nothing more. They both wanted a rise out of each other. Fine.

Two could play at this game.

Gabriel wiped down the mixing bowl, steel mixers and spoons efficiently, waiting for his next order. Completely unaffected by how Jesse scooted closer, inspected his work and nodded—not once accidentally brushing against him. “Seems fine,” Jesse said, “This next part? Gotta be real delicate. Any egg fat and we’re fucked. Get it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jesse let out an aborted little noise, inaudible to most, but to Gabriel? It sounded like a breathy confession meant only for the bedroom, a whisper that kissed his ear. Gabriel tuned into Jesse’s heart like a radio, listening keenly to the vibrating thumps, wild and erratic. When Jesse spoke, his voice was raw—like he’d been screaming Gabriel’s name for hours beneath him. “Separate the egg whites.”

He cracked the first egg and emptied it into his clean hands, running the whites through his fingertips before discarding the yoke. The second egg wasn’t so perfect, and a sliver of yellow floated listlessly among the clear, gelatinous fluids. 

Behind him, Jesse tsked. “What did I say, Reyes? I said no fat. Want to know why?” Before he could answer— “Fat prevents the meringue from gettin’ to how we like it; nice an’ stiff, if you’re wanting t’know.”

Gabriel ignored the euphemism, too aware of how tight his pants had become.

”You’re a messy boy, aren’t you?” Jesse leaned in. Brushed against him. “Clean it up.”

Gabriel let out an easy breath, but inside, he was coiled in lust. He grabbed the teaspoon from Jesse absentmindedly and carefully pried out the speck of yellow. In his ear, Jesse said, “Now, mix it, agent.”

He hooked the clean, steel mixers into the handheld electric machine and stuck it in the bowl. The machine whirred when he flipped the switch, and he mixed while Jesse, beside him—but not close enough—squeezed the cut lemon into a bowl and measured sugar and salt. The mixture became a little foamy, and with no further instructions from Jesse, he continued to mix. The hum of the machine, the repetitious movement… his mind wandered elsewhere, to his bedroom, under sheets. Hands wandering over Jesse’s soft skin—

“Reyes.”

Had Jesse said something? “What?”

“You payin’ attention?” When Gabriel didn’t answer… “Guess whatever you were daydreamin’ about was more important than winnin’ this bake-off, that it?”

“No.” Yes.

“Then get your head in the game,” Jesse snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

If Jesse had been affected by the sir, he didn’t show it, leaning in to clinically inspect his work. “I added the salt and lemon juice a minute ago, and our meringue still ain’t stiff. If you ruin it, there ain’t no winnin’, y’hear me?”

Gabriel looked down. White shiny tufts of soft clouds clung to the sides of the bowl. He didn’t know if it was right, didn’t care, but nodded anyway. Then held his breath as Jesse nearly touched his lips to the shell of his ear. “Beat it harder.”

It was fucking obscene. Gabriel let out the air he’d been holding in a telltale whoosh, and worked the mixer around the bowl, scraping all the sides in what he interpreted as ‘harder.’ But that wasn’t enough. His heart thrummed recklessly as Jesse whispered, “Faster,” in his ear.

Gabriel pressed his hard dick against the counter to hide it, to get friction, something. His heart was in his throat, and he wondered if Jesse could see his pulse point going haywire.

As he was told, Gabriel turned up the speed on the mixer and it skipped around the bowl, erratic, without rhythm. The white fluff seemed to stiffen, turn glossier, but somehow Jesse wasn’t satisfied. Alarms went off in his head before it happened, and everything slowed to a crawl; Jesse reached out, put a gentle hand on the small of his back—

Whatever his intention had been, to simply touch him or to signal that it was time he took over, it never came across. Gabriel switched off the mixer, grabbed Jesse and spun him, pinning him against the wall, hand on his throat—and that did it, Jesse’s eyes went wide, pupils blown out. Jesse had always liked a little violence.

"Took all that to get you to pay attention to me, huh?" Jesse licked his lips. "Kinda like it when you play hard to get."

Gabriel looked at his lips, soft and pink. He wanted to kiss him until his mouth came away bruised. Finally, after all these painful fucking years, he wanted to risk it all for Jesse McCree—his job, his life, every possible thing he held dear. Red tape hadn’t stopped either of them. Neither of them truly cared about the UN’s regulations, the power imbalance, the age difference—none of it. The way Jesse tilted his hips forward right then, locking brown eyes with his own, told him that Jesse wanted everything he wanted. But something wasn’t quite right. Something told him in the back of his head that Jesse wouldn’t take whatever it was they’d become seriously. And that—his heart couldn’t bear it. It was all in, or nothing at all.

He eased his grip around Jesse’s throat and Jesse’s face fell. He knew. They both knew. Whatever this was, it couldn’t happen. But Jesse McCree wasn’t the kind of man to give up.

Something in the air changed again. The devilish little glint in Jesse’s eyes told him he’d play dirty.

“You gonna be their lapdog forever, Reyes?” Jesse challenged.

“Has nothing to do with _them_ , agent,” Gabriel hissed. “Watch your mouth.”

“No. I ain’t mindin’ my manners no more. And it don’t matter who’s responsible. Them, you—don’t matter. You spend your entire life on other people. They took everythin’ from you an’ you can’t allow yourself t’have one nice thing? Even if it’s, for what—two minutes?”

“I last a lot longer than two minutes,” Gabriel deadpanned.

Jesse’s eyes grew a degree wider, then narrowed just as quickly. “Guess I won’t ever find out, huh? Not when you’re such a fuckin’ boyscout.”

“Not about the rules either, you… fucker,” Gabriel growled.

Whether it was his anger or the name he’d called him, he couldn’t be sure. Jesse gripped the collar of his shirt and yanked him in, kissing square on the mouth. His head swam with it, his breath hitched. He hung onto Jesse and smothered him with a kiss so passionate, so urgent and near angry, that his knees almost went weak with it. It pulled a soft noise from the back of Jesse’s throat and Gabriel devoured it—because he needed more, everything Jesse could ever give him. But that was when it started, the niggling in the back of his head, just when everything began to feel so right; a small voice telling him all of this was wrong, that Jesse would break his heart in the long run.

Gabriel pulled back, bewildered, eyes having a hard time re-focusing. When they did, Jesse’s hair was everywhere, lips flushed and abused. Gabriel let him go and took a step back, retreating to the counter as if their meringue would save him. Jesse was quick on his heels, grabbing his arm, whipping him around. His soft browns were hard and accusatory. Hurt, even. Handsome face flushed with an angry red. “That’s what y’gonna do? Tease me? Leave me hangin’?” Jesse hissed. Enraged. “Y’know what, Reyes? You may’ve been the hero of the Omnic Crisis, but really, you’re just a big fuckin’ coward, ain’t’cha?”

“The fuck you say?”

“You heard me. In fact...” Jesse backed away. “I’m done with you. I ain’t interested in someone without a spine, which is exactly what you’ve become—and exactly how they want you.”

He turned to go, and Gabriel latched onto his arm with an iron-vice grip. Pain fluttered over Jesse’s face, that and something else—deep-seated desire, maybe. It was what Gabriel wanted—no, _needed_ from him. Fuck the rules and his doubts about Jesse. Fuck everything.

“Get on your knees.”

Jesse dropped to the ground as if he were magnetized to the floor, his hands worshipful over Gabriel’s thighs on the way down. They’d waited years for this, and they clashed together, eager and greedy. Jesse made sloppy work of his fly, and Gabriel grabbed a thick handful of hair at the back of his head, gripping it hard, just to give Jesse more of an incentive. It pinched a strangled noise out of Jesse, and the sound went straight to his dick, made it hard again before Jesse’s nimble, devilish fingers ever touched it and dragged it out of his underwear. Jesse licked his lips, gazing at his swollen flesh like he hadn’t eaten in years, then looked up at Gabriel and gave him a sly look that made his toes curl.

Before he knew it, Gabriel had a dollop of meringue on the head of his cock. It was cold—and he was angry. “What the hell are you doing?”

Jesse smirked. “Meringue’s fucked anyway,” as if Gabriel cared about the state of the meringue. “It’s weepin’. Ain’t the only thing weepin’ neither.”

His dick dribbled out a bead of precome on cue.

And Jesse—with his perfect mouth, lips pink and eager—sucked experimentally at the head, laving his tongue over every bit of meringue. Above him, Gabriel choked down a groan and pulled at Jesse’s hair a little harder, and Jesse—fucking took him down to the root without preamble, nose nestled in wiry hair. Stayed like that for half a second before swallowing around the head of his dick, making every nerve ending in his entire body explode. Jesse tortured him with a slow withdrawal, lips pinched tight around his shaft, tongue dragging along his length. Then, he pulled off, smile wide and shit-eating, before he placed a kiss on the slit. Gabriel glared daggers at him, but Jesse didn’t care. He took his time, always did, and curled his tongue around the tip of him before taking him even deeper. 

Gabriel watched his dick disappear into Jesse’s plush mouth over and over again, slow as an easy Sunday morning, before Jesse felt like picking up the pace. It became punishing then, fast, with the head of him hitting the back of Jesse’s throat, only to ease off into a soft, unrushed rhythm that drove him insane. Every time Jesse took him deep, Gabriel rewarded him with a little choked off sound, the tightening of his fingers. And Jesse, in turn, gave him a throaty moan that shook him to his core, adding to his growing crescendo. Below him, Jesse made a movement he couldn’t quite see, but he could hear the metallic ring of a belt buckle undone, the hiss of a zipper torn down. The wet slide of skin against skin—of Jesse jerking himself off to this.

—of someone coming down the hallway.

Gabriel pulled Jesse off, and Jesse whined only to hush when Gabriel glared at him. Soft footfalls. Barely there. Genji, then. If Jesse moaned or made a sound at all, Genji would hear them. They were tucked enough away to avoid immediate notice, but any false move, any accidental sound—

They stilled and listened, Jesse’s heated little pants puffing against his hard dick. The footfalls stopped and lingered in the hallway, just outside the kitchen door. Gabriel held his breath—and Jesse flicked his out to tongue his dick. His reaction was immediate: the savage twist of his hand in Jesse’s hair, pulling him back to expose his throat, to give him a glare that carried a silent order. Jesse beamed him an arrogant smile that could kill.

The footfalls resumed, past the kitchen then faded away. Jesse and Gabriel snapped together like tectonic plates.

Gabriel yanked Jesse back down on his dick, pushing it to the back of his throat, and Jesse let out an exhale of surprise but didn’t complain. Only sucked as hard as he could while Gabriel fucked his mouth, Jesse breathing calmly through his nose like he’d done this a million times before. Jesse didn’t choke, didn’t stutter, just took to the fucking with ease; a duck to water. Gabriel forced his hips deeper, greedy with the reign Jesse let him have, and his toes curled, his balls tightened. Somewhere below him, the sound of flesh on skin pumped faster, harder. Jesse groaned deep, finally gagged a little—and that sent Gabriel over the edge, filling Jesse’s throat, hot and wet. Something splattered on the floor, his boots, and when Gabriel looked down, Jesse was still milking every last drop from his abused dick. Brown hair covered his eyes and sweat slicked his forehead, expression absolutely blissed out. 

He was beautiful, both an angel and sinner.

Jesse looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, dazed, satisfied—completely and utterly _smug_.

“That as good for you as it was for me, darlin’?”

His grin couldn’t be more irritating.

Gabriel reached back and dipped his hand in the cool, sticky meringue—and smeared it on Jesse’s face.

Jesse flinched then just kneeled there for a second, blinking up at him, half covered in white. His pink tongue slipped out and licked at the meringue, and that shit-eating grin was back. “I like the taste of your meringue better. That bein’ said…”

Somehow, Jesse had gotten the better of him, up and past him before he cared to notice, and lobbed a glob of meringue at his chest. Gabriel frowned down at it, then up at him. That was when things got out of hand.

Meringue ended up everywhere, thrown haphazardly at each other, half the time missing and sticking to the counters, the refrigerator, the floors. They shared belly-deep laughs, teasing touches, a light-heartedness neither of them had felt in a long time. Their happiness only dulled a shade when Ana walked into the kitchen and looked at the state of things. They stood at attention like two school boys caught in the middle of a dirty prank.

“Ma’am.” Jesse tipped an imaginary hat.

She looked at them expressionless, then glanced at the spatter on the walls, the floor, then back at them. “Get this cleaned up.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they said in unison.

Ana gave Gabriel a _you know better_ look and left.

“You’re’n some deep trouble with the Captain,” Jesse drawled beside him.

“It’s fine. The report will say you started it,” Gabriel tossed back.

They shared a smile. Jesse winked.

Reinhardt won the bake-off. Jesse and Gabriel fucked every night for two months straight and became inseparable. Once a month, they made Lemon Meringue Pie together, and Reinhardt swore it was the best dessert he’d ever tasted.


End file.
